


Earth keeps spinnin’ around, we’re breathin’

by Toomanyfandoms99



Series: Supernatural Oneshots [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cabin, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Future, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Pentagram Tattoo, Tattoo, no monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toomanyfandoms99/pseuds/Toomanyfandoms99
Summary: “I was thinking of getting a pentagram tattoo,” Castiel says lightly, opening the cupboard and plucking the required dishes and silverware.  The words come in between clacks of plates and forks.  “It could go on my chest like yours, as a sort of commemoration of what we survived.  What do you think?”Dean does not answer, because he does not know how to answer.  He busies himself with shutting off the stove and dividing up the scrambled eggs.But his silence is too pointed.  Too lengthy.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Supernatural Oneshots [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024984
Comments: 2
Kudos: 100





	Earth keeps spinnin’ around, we’re breathin’

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from the song “Habitual” by Justin Bieber.

After they make love in Dean’s bed, Castiel says, “I want a tattoo. Will you do it for me?”

Dean, at this point, is so dazed and susceptible to vulnerability that he does not truly think it through when he answers, “yes.”

“Yeah?” Castiel’s eyes upturn to study Dean’s jawline from where his head laid on Dean’s collarbone. “Really?”

Dean hums in affirmation, lashes brushing the hollows of his cheeks. His mind is cloudy and spinning, like it always does after Castiel does a number on him. Ever since Castiel became a full-fledged human, his libido has been frequent and insufferable.

Insufferable in the best way, Dean reminds himself, smiling down at Castiel as he does not think before he verbally answers, “yes.”

It gets Castiel to smile back, and it is all that consumes Dean’s mind. Not what he asks for, but what he promises in return.

Dean would do anything to see Castiel’s smile.

The weight of what Castiel has asked for does not hit him until the next morning, when he wakes first in their new little cabin — bought after the monsters all went to Hell — and catches Castiel enter the kitchen with an expectant expression on his face. It is dizzying, and that is when the words worm their way through Dean’s ears and fully comprehend to his lagging brain.

Dean’s lashes flutter, and he keeps a watchful eye on the scrambled eggs sizzling in a pan on the stove. Castiel strides up to him anyway, clad in Dean’s tightest pair of boxers — purposefully, like the minx he was — and a maroon sleep shirt, arching the heels of his feet to rise to tiptoes, kissing Dean square on the lips. It is a light brush, tinged with the taste of morning breath, gone as soon as Dean’s brain short circuits at the warmth and plushness of his husband’s mouth.

Castiel levels himself, bare feet on the kitchen tile, electric eyes aflame, and he teases, “eyes on the pan, soldier.”

Dean clamps his jaw shut, a half-smile on the edge of his mouth, as he turns back to the pan. The eggs would be burning if Castiel hadn’t prompted him.

And oh, he is distracted again. Castiel is too good at doing that to him, not that he can complain.

“I was thinking of getting a pentagram tattoo,” Castiel says lightly, opening the cupboard and plucking the required dishes and silverware. The words come in between clacks of plates and forks. “It could go on my chest like yours, as a sort of commemoration of what we survived. What do you think?”

Dean does not answer, because he does not know how to answer. He busies himself with shutting off the stove and dividing up the scrambled eggs.

But his silence is too pointed. Too lengthy.

“Hello?” Castiel comes to stand in front of Dean as he stands near the kitchen table, placing the plates at each setting. “Listening?”

“Mhm,” Dean says, careful not to meet Castiel’s hopeful gaze. He pulls back his chair and sits, Castiel setting down two glasses of water.

Castiel sits and squints, his voice dangerous. “You didn’t really think about it at all, did you?”

Dean blushes heatedly, ducking his head down, staring at the scrambled eggs, stabbing some through with his fork. “It’s not like that, Cas.”

“Oh?” Castiel’s voice deepens in the way that makes Dean feel dizzy and guilty at the same time. “So what’s it like, then?”

Dean swallows thickly. “It’s...you…”

He has no idea how to say it without getting in trouble.

“You...I’m thinking about it now,” Dean parses out, a tinge of apology in his tone. “I couldn’t think about it before because…well,” he blushes intensely, “you tend to...distract me.”

He realizes he’s said too much, and he clears his throat awkwardly. He stuffs his mouth with scrambled egg and chews.

He told the truth, though, so Castiel cannot fault him for that.

Castiel exhales through his nose, loudly and pointedly. “You really are a flustered mess around me.” He sighs. “I would think by now you would be over that phase. We’ve been married for three years.”

Dean burns from the inside out, daring to flicker his eyes to Castiel. “Can’t a guy be obsessed with his husband without time constraints?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, right on brand. This means he can’t be too angry at Dean.

He stabs at the scrambled eggs with his fork. “You’re insufferable.”

Dean smirks. “Thank you, dear.”

They eat in a lapse of comfortable silence. They wash dishes together. 

This is usually the time that Castiel checks on his flower garden in the backyard, spending the morning watering his plants and harvesting his vegetable crops and fruit trees. Dean, meanwhile, either cleans the cabin or works on Baby’s upkeep, which was getting more and more constant because the beloved Impala is so old.

Before this breakaway happens, though, Castiel corners Dean against the kitchen sink after their hands are dried with a towel.

“Have you finished thinking?” Castiel pries, hands on gorgeously-defined hips. His eyes study Dean’s face critically, and Dean knows there’s no getting out of this one.

He has been thinking in the pockets of silence. He really has, so Castiel can’t get mad at him for avoiding the topic.

Dean says, “we can go to a tattoo parlor to get it done.”

“I want you to do it,” Castiel emphasizes.

Dean blinks in surprise. He thought, when going over Castiel’s words, that it was an error on his part.

‘I never mess up my words,’ Castiel has said many times.

Dean should have known that, remembered that. He wants to slap himself for being so...so forgetful. So far from what Castiel deserves.

Castiel would tell Dean to stop thinking that, because Castiel was just as flawed as he, but Dean cannot help it.

“I...I don’t want to hurt you,” Dean says thoughtfully. “I mean...I’m no expert. Hell, I couldn’t trust myself to do my own, or Sammy’s own.”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Castiel says, and there is more to this statement than just getting a tattoo. Castiel pauses briefly, tipping his head up to break further into Dean’s personal space. “You could never hurt me.”

Dean’s lips wobble, and he wants to say ‘I’ve hurt you so many times before,’ but his feelings catch in his throat and stick there.

Castiel senses this because he knows Dean, he knows Dean like no one else in the world, even Sam doesn’t know Dean like Castiel knows Dean.

He says, “it’s over, Dean. It’s been over a long time.” It is soothing, but a sharp edge soon encompasses Castiel’s gaze, as sharp as his angel blade used to be. “Now can you get the goddamn tattoo gun or not?”

Dean blinks at the language, and he laughs. It comes out as a choked bark, and he ducks his head in embarrassment. Water prickles at his eyes, but he sniffles to dissipate it.

“Okay,” he replies lowly, “okay, Cas.”

So Dean goes out that morning to acquire a tattoo gun and permanent ink. He comes home and draws out the pentagram tattoo from the memory of it being on his chest for decades. Once he is sure he can get it right, Castiel sweeps into the living room, observing Dean hunched over on the coffee table with scattered tracings.

“You’ll make your back worse if you don’t move to the kitchen table,” Castiel clips fondly.

At the reminder, a swoop of affection lingers in Dean’s stomach, warming his heart. He smiles, so Castiel cannot see it, and stretches out his back against the couch.

Castiel glides over to Dean, at his head lolling over the back of the couch, and smiles down at him amusedly. Castiel ends up looking upside down in Dean’s vision, and his fingers move to comb through Dean’s silver-blonde hair. Dean closes his eyes and hums at the motions mussing up his hair.

“Practicing?” Castiel prompts curiously.

“Mhm,” Dean says, “don’t wanna mess your body up with my scribbles.”

Castiel snorts. “You could never.”

Castiel’s fingers fall away from Dean’s hair, causing Dean’s eyes to open. His husband’s dancing blue eyes are what he focuses on. 

“I made you grilled cheese,” he says.

Dean smiles. “I love you.”

“Of course you do,” Castiel teases, leaving the edges of Dean’s vision.

Dean rises from the couch, his back pain gone, and has lunch with Castiel. No one makes grilled cheese sandwiches like Castiel.

After they clear away lunch, Castiel asks, “you ready to do this thing?”

Dean arches a brow in fear and surprise.

Castiel notices and laughs right at him. “You won’t hurt me!” He insists amusedly. “I know you can do it.”

Dean purses his lips, then boldly nods. Castiel smiles and grasps Dean’s hand. 

Dean says nothing as Castiel guides him to their bedroom. Castiel’s hand slips away as he perches in the middle of the bed, a bird in a love nest. He crosses his legs as Dean procures the supplies he needs. He sets the tattoo gun and ink on the bedspread, also placing washcloths and bandaging in the conjoined bathroom, leaving the door ajar for quick access.

Castiel’s shirt is pulled over his head and falls to the carpet in a plop. Dean gulps without meaning to, and Castiel laughs brightly.

“You really are obsessed with me,” he teases, a crooked grin lingering as Dean sits across from Castiel on the bedspread, his own legs crossed.

Dean shrugs in answer, nerves gripping his shoulders. He drops them, exhaling through his nose to ease the tension.

Castiel watches Dean work on the tattoo. He does not make a noise of pain or shift uncomfortably during the entire process. They hardly breathe, Castiel not wanting to break Dean’s concentration, Dean not wanting to make Castiel nervous at a mistake.

There are no slip-ups, no stray marks, and no deviations from Dean’s own tattoo.

Dean doesn’t breathe and lean away from Castiel until the pentagram rests on Castiel’s chest.

Dean dares to smile, and he slips off the bedspread. He offers a hand. “Come and look.”

Castiel smiles in excitement and takes the hand, hopping out of the bed. They walk to the bathroom together, and Dean watches Castiel study himself in the mirror.

“Hm,” his lips curve upwards further, “maybe you’ll be a tattoo artist yet.”

Dean snorts at the idea. “This was stressful enough. Now be still while I wrap it up.”

Castiel is silent and observant as Dean works to bandage the new tattoo. Dean is careful in his touches, heat flaring in his cheeks as his palms smooth carefully over the sensitive area.

“From what I know,” Dean says, “it’ll be a little red for a day or two.”

Castiel hums in affirmation. “Thank you, Dean.”

The sunshine packed into Castiel’s expression has Dean positively weak at the knees. 

Castiel catches the emotions flash before Dean’s eyes, and he leans forward a little, breath ghosting Dean’s skin.

“You know,” Castiel breathes coyly, “I’m already half-naked.”

Dean pulls his head back, mouth falling open. “Are you,” his voice gets squeaky, “are you flirting with me?”

Castiel winks, and it is so dorky and sexy that Dean’s heart skips.

“I-I could hurt you,” Dean says, “your chest will hurt.”

Castiel bats his lashes. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of me.”

Flummoxed, Dean blinks. “Uh...um.”

Castiel waits, sucking a little on his bottom lip.

That is a trigger, and Castiel knows it. The action causes a burst of electricity to zip through Dean, and his mouth dries.

“Mhm,” Dean nods, “that’s enough for me.”

By the time he had pulled his shirt off, Castiel was laughing in bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated!


End file.
